Tales of Corwin

The next day, Wednesday, Mark was working in his study at the church when Mrs. Fludd rang him on the intercom line.

“It’s Lois McCutcheon for you, on line one.”

“Lois McCutcheon?”  Mark didn’t recognize the name.  “Should I know who that is?”

“Lois from the Circle,” supplied Mrs. Fludd.

“Oh, that Lois.  Thank you, Flora.”  He hung up on the intercom and picked up line one.  “Hi, Lois, this is Mark.”

“Hello, Mark.  I’m calling to invite you to lunch.  Are you free this Saturday?”

He checked his calendar.  “I sure am.  Where should we meet?”

“Our farm is on Old 31, north of town.  It’s about two miles beyond the radio station.”

“Okay,” said Mark, grabbing a pencil and writing down the directions. “Old 31, north of town, two miles past the radio station.”

“You’ll see our mailbox there on the right, number 10700, and a dirt track that looks like nobody ever drives on it.  But just follow that up to the house.  Around noon?”

“Sounds great.  Thanks, Lois.  Is there anything I can bring?”

“Just yourself.  We’ll see you then.”

When they hung up, Mrs. Fludd rang him again on the intercom.  “Did Lois invite you out to the farm?”

“Yes, I’m having lunch there on Saturday.”

“I thought she would,” she said with satisfaction.  “She’s so protective.  Did she warn you about their driveway—how it always looks totally unused?”

“Yes, she told me about that.  But what do you mean, protective?”

“Protective about all of us.  In your case, you know, protective about Sandra.  It was only a matter of time before she’d invite you out to the farm.”

“Really?”

“Of course.  She wants a chance to check you out.  But don’t worry.  You’ll be fine!”

“Okay, thanks, Flora.”  He hung up, wishing she hadn’t said don’t worry.  He hadn’t been worried until just then.

 

On Saturday, when Mark drove up north of town, he found the general location easily enough. Two miles north of the radio station, the farmed land on the east side of the road was interrupted by an exuberantly forested patch.  Mark slowed down and began to look for a driveway.  A few hundred yards along, he found the mailbox, number 10700; a few hundred more yards, and the trees ended.  Must have missed it, he thought.  He made a U-turn and cruised even more slowly back along the wooded strip.  Close by the mailbox, when he came to it again, he noticed a sort of cart-track heading into the underbrush, like two parallel trails with thick weeds growing up around and between them.  Could that really be the driveway?  No wonder they’d warned him about it.

He turned onto the driveway—if that’s what it was—and drove slowly into the woods.  There was a tight S-curve through the trees, and he began to wonder whether this track led anywhere at all.  It looked for a while as if it might just peter out—as if it might lead him into a little slough and leave him there to perish.  But suddenly he came out into the open, and Mark could see that he must be in the right place.  Beyond the trees, there were extensive gardens on either side of the drive, and what looked like a henhouse.  And beyond that, Mark could see a farmhouse and a barn. He followed the fork in the driveway that led toward the house.

There didn’t seem to be any place to park—unless that little shed up against the house served as a garage—and Mark wasn’t sure where to leave the car.  But Lois came out from the shed as he drove up, and motioned him off to the side, so he parked on the grass and climbed out of the car.

She pushed back her sun hat and held out her hand to him.  “Mark.  Welcome to our home.  Did you have any trouble finding us?”

“Yes,

The following week, Mark was sitting in his car in the parking lot of the Bible Church, steeling himself for what he had to do.  He hated confrontation, but this just had to be done.  It was probably hopeless, but it had to be done.  He got out of the car and went into the church through the big double doors.  To the left was the secretary’s office.

“Hi,” he said.  “I’m Pastor Mark Collins.  Pastor Caputo is expecting me.”

“Yes, sir,” said the secretary.  “His office is just through there.”  She pointed him to a short inner hallway, and he went down it, knocking on the door of the corner office.  David’s voice hailed him from inside.

“Hi, David,” said Mark, entering the office and reaching across the desk to shake the older man’s heavy hand.  David was dressed in a conservative jacket and tie, as always.  “Great office space you have here.  Thanks for seeing me.”

“Any time, Mark.  Please sit down.”  David sat back down behind his desk, and Mark took one of the two chairs in front of it.

“Thanks, David.  David, this is hard for me, because you and I are disagreeing about something, and I hate disagreements.  Would it be all right if we take a minute to pray together, before we talk?”

“Excellent idea, my boy.  Let’s pray.”  He bowed his head, put his elbows on the desk, clasped his hands in prayer, and continued.  “Father God, we praise you for your Word, teaching us everything we need to know for godliness.  We praise you for showing us the way to resolve conflict.  Help us move each other on toward righteousness.  Keep the enemy from bringing confusion and separation, where you desire clarity and unity.  We pray this prayer in Jesus’ name.  Amen.”

Well, that wasn’t exactly the prayer experience Mark had been looking for.  But he took three long, slow breaths with his eyes still closed, then opened them and began.  He had planned how to begin while he was sitting in the car, so this part was easy enough.

“David, I’ve read your letter to the editor, and you’ve read mine, so I guess we know where we stand there.  I see these Wiccans as basically good people whose spiritual path is different from mine.  You see them as followers of a false religion that makes them the pawns of demonic forces.  Is that so?”

“Yes,” said David, after consideration, “I think you’ve understood me reasonably well.”  Then he leaned forward in his creaking office chair.  “Now let me ask you a question: do you believe in demons?”

“I believe that there are evil forces at work in the world.”

“The Bible describes demons.”

“The Bible describes demons as causing various physical and mental illnesses, which we now know are caused by completely natural processes.  We don’t have to be superstitious, just because the Bible records that our faith ancestors were.”

“Well, let’s pass over that for now.  But you do believe that there are evil forces at work in the world?”

“Yes.”

“And isn’t it possible that these forces would act through an unwitting person?”

“Yes, that’s possible.”

“And if we see someone leading others away from Christ, might that not be an example of your evil forces at work in the world?”

“Yes, it might.”

David leaned back with a smile, and steepled his hands in front of him.  “Then ask yourself, my boy: what exactly are Miss Shelby and her followers up to?  And why are you defending them?”

“David, I am not your boy.  I’m your colleague.  And as a fellow servant of God, I’m bound to say that I think you’ve strayed off the path here.  Yes, I believe in evil forces, like pride, and intolerance, and bigotry, and misogyny.  Yes, I believe that those forces are at work in the world.  Yes, I believe that those forces can act through an unwitting person.  And,

The memory of their shining day together had to sustain Mark for quite a while, because the very next day, his workload doubled.

He had been making weekly visits to two different nonagenarians in the church—two ladies who had been on hospice care for so long that it seemed like they might just go on forever.  Within days of each other, however, they both took turns for the worse, and suddenly Mark had his hands full: there were more visits to be made, and urgent middle-of-the-night calls, and consultations with the families, and, ultimately, memorial services to be planned, and graveside services, and funeral luncheons.

The first of these was on a Saturday.  That evening, Mark headed over to the Rose and Feather to treat himself to a well-earned dinner.  But here was more trouble: the Bible Church’s strategy had suddenly become clear.  Sandra seated him in a booth, and told him the story while he ate.

“I got this notice today,” she said, handing him an envelope.  “It says that my liquor license renewal is being denied.”

“Denied on what grounds?”

“Get this: on the grounds that we are within three hundred feet of a church.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?  I know there’s a state statute about this—but that one wouldn’t apply to us, since our original license was issued long before the Bible Church moved in.  Apparently, there’s also a city ordinance, and it seems to be less flexible.  No liquor license within three hundred feet of a church, period.”

“Huh.”  Mark thought about it for a minute.  This must be what David Caputo had been planning all along.  Tricky bastard.  “I wonder if his people know?” he mused aloud.  “I mean, do they know they bought that building just for a sham mission church, just on the chance of putting you out of business, just because you’re a Wiccan?  Or did he sell them on the idea of this Bible Church branch as a real mission?”

“Either way,” said Sandra,  “I’ve got to do something—and pretty fast, too.  My current license expires in two months.”

“Do you have a lawyer?” Mark asked.

“I had one when I bought this place, but he retired and left town.  I haven’t needed a lawyer since.”

“I have two in my congregation.”  Mark thought about the lawyers he knew.  “Hey now,” he said finally, “John Smith: he’s a lawyer, and I think he served on the City Council once too, though he’s not a councilman now.”

“John Smith?  Sounds like an alias.”

“I know.  But he’s a good guy.  I don’t really know whether he’s a good lawyer or not, but I’ve always imagined he must be, because he’s very—well, very thoughtful and deliberate.  Sees all sides of an issue.  And, as I said, he knows how the City Council works.”

“Sounds worth a try,” said Sandra.  “Give me his number, and I’ll give him a call.”

“Right,” said Mark.  “I don’t have it on me, but I’ll call you with it as soon as I get back to the church.”

 

Monday morning, Sandra called John Smith and explained her problem.  He was reassuringly businesslike on the phone, and he said he would look into it.  Wednesday afternoon he called—could she come down to the office to discuss the matter with him?  She headed right over.  She felt like the clock was ticking.  Her license would expire in less than sixty days.  And although she had built up a loyal clientele, she couldn’t expect them to stay loyal for long if the Rose and Feather lost its license.

His office was in a building near the courthouse.  A secretary showed her through a warren of little rooms, all of which seemed to be filled with books and filing cabinets, to a small conference room with a wooden table and six swivel chairs.  “Mr. Smith will be with you shortly,” she said.

In fact,

The path Mark had chosen finally brought them out on the other side of the retreat center’s buildings.  Sandra was amazed at the vista that opened before them.  The front portion of the grounds, which they had seen as they drove through, had reminded her of a golf course in its manicured beauty.  But from here, the property seemed not only as trim as a golf course, but as large as one, or larger.  There were broad lawns and neat copses; there were ponds and gardens; there were benches and statuary.

“Wow,” she said.  “This place must employ an army of gardeners.”

“Retired nuns and priests, mostly,” said Mark.  “And, actually, here’s someone I know.”  To the side of the path, near a statue of Francis with the Wolf of Gubbio, a woman on a garden kneeler was working on a bed of day-lilies.  “Good morning, Sister Anna,” called Mark.

“Good morning!”  The woman turned to look up at them, shading her eyes with a garden-gloved hand.  “It’s Pastor Mark, isn’t it?”

“Just Mark, thank you, Sister.  And this is my friend Sandra.”

“Hello, Sandra.  Please forgive my not getting up.  Getting up and back down again is not as easy as it used to be.  What brings you two here on this beautiful day?”

“We’ve had a gong bath, Sister,” said Sandra, trying not to feel like she was back in the fifth grade.  “It was a surprise for me—and so is the view from this path.  Thank you for your work in making it so beautiful.”

“Why, you’re very welcome,” said Sister Anna.  “God, of course, makes it beautiful; we just help a little around the edges.”  She gave Sandra a measuring look—making her feel even more like she was back in Catholic school.  “You know, I believe I will get up—if you’ll lend me a hand?”

Sandra and Mark both stepped forward, but Sandra reached Sister Anna first, offered her an arm, and helped her to rise.  She was shorter than Sandra by a good six inches; her once-red hair was now mostly gray, and she rose with an effort, but her blue eyes were clear and bright.  “There!” she said.  “Thank you, Sandra.  My, aren’t you pretty, decorating the world!  May I walk with you two for a little while?”

“Of course, Sister,” said Sandra.  Sister Anna took Sandra’s arm, and Mark came up on the other side of her.  Together, they continued down the path at a much slower pace.

‘Don’t worry.  I’ll just stretch my legs a little, and then I’ll leave you two to go on together.”  She walked with them for a hundred yards or so, pointing out some of the plantings that she had worked on.  Then she said, “I recommend the labyrinth garden today, by the way.  Father Nadowicz may have his little ways, but he did get that fountain working again, and it looks beautiful.”

Mark spoke up.  “Sister Anna taught a class I took when I first came here, Sandra—a class on the history and uses of the labyrinth.  I’ve invited my congregation here to experience it several times since then.”

“Yes,” said Sister Anna.  “Perhaps you could walk it this afternoon.  I think you’ll find it a very sustaining prayer practice.”

Suddenly, Sandra felt like an impostor.  “Sister,” she said, “I don’t want to impose on your hospitality, so forgive me, but I just have to tell you that … that I’m not a Christian.  I’m a pagan.  Do you mind?”

“Oh, pooh!” said Sister Anna.  “Ask the flowers if they mind being looked at by you.  Ask the grass and the trees.  Ask Sir Brother Sun if he hides his light from you.  You are no less welcome to me, Sandra.”  And she gave Sandra’s arm a little hug.  “But just between you and me, I shouldn’t tell Father Nadowicz, if you meet him.  Not if I were you.”

They came to a little bench, and Sister Anna sat down on it.  “I’ll leave you here,” she said.  “It was very nice to meet you, Sandra.  I hope you’ll visit us again some time.

Sandra’s day off started when Mark came to pick her up.  He didn’t just sit in the car and honk, but came up to the door.  Always the gentleman, Sandra thought.  The day was sunny and already hot, and she had a fine open feeling as she climbed into his car.  Almost anything might happen, she felt.  It was going to be a good day.

Mark was still being mysterious about their destination.  Using county roads, he drove them east and a little north, stopping after about half an hour at a diner.  It was in an impossibly tiny building between two larger storefronts, on the main street of a two-block town.  Sandra thought it was the smallest diner she had ever seen.

“I found this place five or six months ago,” said Mark.  “They do a good breakfast.  The owner is a man named Doug, who’s usually also the cook.  He remembered my name after my first visit.  Seems to know everyone’s name.  But it’s been two months since I was here.  Let’s see if he still remembers it.”

They walked in—the doorway was barely high enough for Mark—and closed the door behind them.

“Hey, Mark!” said the man scraping the grill, not four feet from the door.

“Hi, Doug.  How’s things?”

“Can’t complain.  Large orange juice?”

“Now, how can you remember that?  Yes, a large orange juice.  And Doug, this here is Sandra.”

Funny how Mark changed his manner of speaking to match his company, she thought.  He’d never have said this here is Sandra in church, or in the Rose and Feather.  Oh, well—at least he didn’t say this little lady here is Sandra.

“Hey, Sandra,” said Doug, waving the scraper in her direction.  “What’ll you have to start?”

“Coffee, please, Doug.  Nice place you have here.”  Sandra looked around—actually, it looked like a bit of a dive.  There were six booths, three on each side of a narrow aisle.  The grill was at the front, where at least two of the booths were within spitting distance—and guys sitting in those two booths looked like they might just put that to the test.  The booths themselves were diminutive, almost like children’s furniture.  She couldn’t imagine how this worked out financially.  Six four-tops—and you wouldn’t even be able to get four into these booths, unless they were fairly slim people, and good friends too.  Oh well—not her problem.  It had charm, and she supposed they drew a lot of regulars.

“Large OJ and a coffee, Jemma,” Doug called to the back.  They slipped into the only free booth—well, actually, Mark had to sort of fold his long limbs into the booth—and a stout older woman came out from the back, bringing them their drinks.

“Hi,” said Mark, “I’m Mark, and this is Sandra.  Are you Jemma?  We haven’t met before, have we?”

“I don’t think so.  But you never know—my memory ain’t what it used to be.  Ready to order?”

They ordered breakfast.  In the car, they had been planning their class together, and Mark had still seemed enthusiastic about the idea.  He’d looked up Lughnasadh, and was now full of facts about the Christian version: Lammas, the loaf-mass.  But now, in this tiny diner, Sandra kept getting distracted from their conversation.  She found it hard not to listen to the conversations from the other booths, which were all so nearby: “Who would name a little girl Orma? … Seems like they just did Oklahoma!, didn’t they? … Two forty-eight a gallon, can you believe it? … I’m telling you, none of ‘em was seniors, which is why they’re going to State next year … And that was just on the first date … “

Hmm.  That reminded her of a question.  “Don’t answer if it’s too personal,” she began.

“Ask away—my life is an open book.”

“When’s the last time you were out on a date?”

“Ah, well—as for that, my life is an open and largely empty book,” said Mark.

After the service, back in the Fellowship Hall, their visitors were receiving many handshakes and hugs.  Mark was proud of his congregation; nothing seemed to shake their determination to be welcoming to everybody.  He heard the same suggestion from several quarters: that they should invite Sandra to lead a class, so they could learn something about her “church.”  He doggedly referred to it as her “religious tradition” or her “faith tradition,” but most people seemed determined to call the Rose Feather Circle a church.  He hoped Sandra didn’t mind.

It was nearly one o’clock before the fellowship hall emptied out; Mark and Sandra were the last two there.  Sandra was looking pensive, Mark thought, and he suddenly felt a bit awkward with her.  Last night, they had been so comfortable together.  But being together in the dark on the roof of the high school was one thing, and being together in the plain light of the Fellowship Hall might be another.  Was she maybe having second thoughts about last night?

But no: she came to him, gave him a very warm hug, and said, “Well done, you.”

“Thanks.”  You’re wonderful, he thought, and I’m an idiot.  “Thanks for coming.  Thanks for ‘showing the flag,’ as Flora put it.  You really won people over today.”  He looked at her more closely.  “But there is something wrong, isn’t there?  What is it?”

“Oh—I hate to spoil the morning, but—well, it’s something Alan the realtor said to me.”

“Alan?  Really?”  Mark would never have thought of Alan as harboring any secret religious prejudice.  He always seemed to treat everyone as a potential friend (and client).

“No,” said Sandra, “not like that.  He was very friendly and everything.  No: but he just told me that he’s finally sold that storefront across the street from the Rose and Feather.”

“And?”

“The Bible Church bought it.  He says they’re planning to open a mission there.”

Mark was stunned.  “But that’s … that’s … inexplicable.  I can’t imagine what they’re thinking about.  I was in the Bible Church just last week.  They’re doing fine—twice the size of my congregation here—but they have a newish building there, and they’re not at all crowded.  What would they want with a storefront?”

“Somehow, it’s a move against the Rose and Feather, I’m sure of that,” said Sandra.  “I just can’t figure out how.”  But she shook her head firmly.  “Well, no use worrying about it; I dare say we’ll find out what they’re up to soon enough.  Let’s enjoy the present.  Your sermon was spot on.  I was watching people’s reactions, and I didn’t see anyone looking upset by what you said.”

“Yes,” said Mark.  “You know, when I first started this job, I used to worry about that a lot.  There’d be something I felt I just had to say, something that I was afraid some people might disagree with.  And I would go back and forth about it: do I dare to say this in a sermon?  And usually, I did dare.  And usually, nobody got upset.  Partly it’s because this congregation is full of really good people; but partly, you know, it’s because most of them don’t actually listen to the sermon all that closely.  Sermons are a really overrated form of communication.”

“Well, I thought they were listening today, anyway.  What do you think about this idea of me teaching a class?”

“Excellent.  That’s a much better form of communication.  But I want it to be something loud and proud, like I said in my sermon.  So I’m thinking, not just a class for this congregation—we’d advertise it all over, so everyone in town would see that your circle is welcome in my church.  Take that, Bible Church!”

“I like it,” said Sandra.  “But to go one step further—what about something we could actually teach together?  So you’re not just hosting it, which might come off as a bit condescending, you know.  Oh, look,

Sleeping in the chair was usually not a good idea for Mark, but it did have this benefit: the daylight there was strong, and it got him up at dawn.  He had a run, a shower, and a bite of breakfast, dressed for church, and then took his written sermon outside to practice.  He paced up and down in the back yard, preaching to the birds and the old apple trees, until he had it down—not word-for-word, maybe, but thought-for-thought.  He didn’t tell the birds and the trees about Sandra—not yet.  If he thought too much about Sandra right now, he felt like he might just spring up into the daylight sky.

So, he paced up and down among the old apple trees, concentrating on his sermon.  His grandparents had called this part of the property “the orchard,” but no one in living memory had tended it as such; it was a wild apple grove now, and Mark took only an occasional apple from its branches.  Grass grew sparsely in the shade of the old trees.  It was a good place to sit and watch the birds and animals that came to clean up the windfall fruit.  In fact, a duck was there now, doing just that.  Wait—a duck?

Daisy! thought Mark.  You’re here!  I thought you were —

— in Maine? finished the duck.  Don’t be silly, Mark Lucifer; I am wherever I want to be.  She waddled up to Mark.  I like your orchard.

I’m so glad!  I’d like to think I could meet you here, sometimes.

I’d like that.  The duck grabbed one of Mark’s shoelaces in her bill and tugged it until it came untied.  Then she looked up at him.  My, aren’t you just all aglow this morning!  You outshine the sun.

Oh, dear, thought Mark.  That’s embarrassing.  Will everyone see, do you suppose?

And what if they do?  Didn’t your master say to let your light shine?

Mark laughed.  Now, what kind of a spirit animal quotes scripture?

Your kind, obviously.  But don’t worry.  Most humans don’t see love-light as clearly as I do.  She preened herself a bit.  In fact, the poor things don’t see much of anything, do they?

Daisy, may I ask you a question?

You may ask.

I’ve been wondering … could I carry the weight of another person in flight?  Last night, I felt as if I could just take off, with … with Sandra in my arms.  Could I have?

Daisy extended her wings and beat them in the air, then folded them down again.  Aren’t my wings beautiful?

Yes, Daisy dear, responded Mark dutifully.  Your wings are quite miraculously beautiful.

Thank you, said the duck primly.  They are also very strong—unlike your arms, which couldn’t hold you in the air, even by yourself.  It isn’t the strength of your arms, but the strength of your spirit, which holds you in flight.

So, is that a yes?

But the duck was working on Mark’s other shoelace, and clearly was through answering questions.  Speaking of arms, she said, open your arms for me, if you please.

Mark opened his arms to receive Daisy.  She rose smoothly up toward his chest, without spreading her wings, and nestled for a moment next to him.  He embraced her gently; her feathers felt smooth and real under his hands.  But then she began to glow more brightly, until Mark’s eyes were dazzled and he had to close them.  When he opened them again, his arms were empty, and Daisy was gone.

Mark stood for a moment, lost in thought.  Then he said to himself, “Well!  I guess I’d better go let my light shine, too.”  He checked his phone and decided that he still had time to walk to church.

He arrived only half an hour before the service, but that was enough time to check the sanctuary, visit with the Sunday School teacher for a few minutes, pass a word with the organist, set up the wireless microphone headset he wore, and greet people at the front door.

When Sandra arrived,

Mark finished the first draft of his sermon, and checked the time: 10:30 already.  Oh, well.  He felt good about the writing, and that was the main thing.

What he really wanted was a walk in the night air.  He put on a denim jacket—not for warmth, but just to have pockets to put his hands in while he walked—and he headed down the street.  The sky was clear, with bright stars but no moon; the air smelled fresh, and the sidewalk was already dry.  Three blocks up Amber street, in the house on the corner, there was a party going on; cars were parked on the street, and people were coming and going.  Beyond that, however, the sidewalks were mostly empty, and Mark was able to walk in peaceful solitude.

His favorite walk these days took him around past Sandra’s house.  He was a bit embarrassed about acting like a love-sick teenager, but he told himself that, after all, there was good reason to be keeping an eye on her house.  And he doubted whether he’d run into her tonight.  She’d be at the tavern on a Saturday night, especially with Terri still out of action.

When he turned down Sandra’s street, he saw a pickup truck, parked on the opposite side, not far from her house.  Two men were just getting out of the truck—but then they seemed to change their minds, and they got back in.  Had they seen him?  It could be nothing, but it seemed suspicious; there was no one else in sight.  Mark stopped and bent over, pretended to tie his shoe, and sneaked another look at the truck.  It was pulling away with its headlights turned off.  At the corner it began to make a turn.

Mark’s suspicion flared into certainty.  He wished he’d been able to get a look at that license plate.  He broke into a run, trying to sprint to the corner to get another look.  Come on, he thought, and he pushed the pace; if only he could run just a little faster!  Then, without a plan in mind, guided only by some surprising instinct, he spread his arms.  His heart sprang into the night sky, and his body followed it.

That feeling of exhilarating freedom, of carefree indestructability, that he had first experienced at the lake swept over him again, and he almost yelled for joy.  But along with the euphoria came an overwhelming urge to hide—a sense that at all costs he must not be seen doing this.  Where could he hide in the sky?  Higher up, of course.  He rose up quickly to a height above the streetlight level, and above the treetops.  Up here, in a moonless night sky, he thought he must be nearly invisible—just a passing shadow in front of the stars, if any stargazers should happen to be looking up.  The air was cool on his face, and he was glad of his jacket after all.

Below him, a pickup truck turned on its headlights as it drove—that must be the one.  He followed it at an easy, gliding pace.  A few little birds flitted by—no, not birds at all, but bats, little bat-friends, making sharp, crazy turns in the evening air.  He could hear, he thought, an occasional little squeak from them.  With his quarry comfortably in view, he rose a little higher, making everything else sink a little lower.  The pickup he was trailing seemed to be in no hurry to get anywhere.  It eventually circled around, passing Sandra’s house again, but didn’t stop.  Mark imagined himself swooping down and appearing in their rear-view mirror, just to give them a fright.  But no: he thought they’d probably just shoot him.  Cool your jets, Batman, he thought.  Let’s just see where they go.

Where they went, in the end, was to a parking place in front of the high school, next to a sedan that was already parked there.  The lighting around the school was too bright, and some of it splashed upward on the building and the flagpole; Mark didn’t dare approach too closely.  The roof of the school, on the other hand, would be a good spot for watching the parked cars.

It was Saturday afternoon, and Mark was doing some writing at home, waiting for a storm that seemed to have been approaching all day.  The air was hot, humid, and heavy.  Occasional, remote thunder vibrated in the ground.  Fitful breezes puffed and then fell flat.

Mark was working on his sermon—a sign that perhaps things were returning to normal.  Earlier in the week, everything had been in an uproar.  On Wednesday, he and Sandra had both given statements to the police.  A police officer, a Lieutenant Stedman, had taken charge of the investigation, and he hadn’t looked particularly surprised when Sandra had told him about her Wiccan circle.  Mark had gone with Sandra to offer his support, and he had watched the lieutenant as Sandra told him her story.  He got the feeling that the guy was mentally adding the Rose Feather Circle to an already-substantial list of strange things he knew about the town of Corwin.  He had no leads yet about the shooter, however.

On Thursday, Cube-Steak had visited the church, for the first time ever, to find out how “the little girl” was doing.  Mark had eventually driven him down to the hospital to visit her.  Sarah Wheatley had been down to visit Terri, and they’d had a long talk together.  Mark had met Terri’s parents, who were embarrassingly grateful to him for whatever it was they thought he’d done.  He and Sandra had recovered Terri’s car, and Terri’s laundry, from the laundromat.

But now, Mark was working on a sermon—or rather, trying to work on a sermon, with zero success.  He usually had at least a first draft of his sermon written by Thursday morning.  Now here it was Saturday afternoon, and he had made absolutely no progress.  He almost always chose scripture readings from the lectionary, and then built his sermon around those readings.  That’s what the congregation expected.  But this week, the lectionary just wasn’t speaking to him.

He was almost relieved when the phone rang.  It was Chris, the electrician from Sandra’s circle.

“Hey, Chris.  What’s up?”

“If you’re free, I could take a look at that wiring project of yours now.  Finished my worklist early today, is all.  But, no problem if you’re busy.”

“No,” said Mark, “I’m not busy at all.  That is, I’m at home, and I’m trying to write.  I’m chopping, but no chips are flying.  I’d love to have an excuse to stop.  Come on over—please!”

“Okay,” laughed Chris.  “Just getting off the highway now.  Be there in five.”

Chris pulled up in an “Eco Electric” work van, and Mark went out on the front porch to greet him—to greet “them,” Mark reminded himself sternly.  Chris was wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt, bib overalls, and work boots.  Chris’ dreadlocks were tied up in an American-flag bandana.  Mark came out onto the front porch as Chris parked under the carport and climbed out of the van.

“Hey, Chris!” he called.  “Thanks for coming.”

“No problem.  What do you think?”  Chris made a turn to show off the look.

“Um … that’s a more macho look for you than last time we met.”

“Exactly.  I try to pass, on the job.  Makes life easier.”

There was another rumble of thunder.  “Hey, I’m glad you got here before the storm,” said Mark.  “Come on inside.”

“Love storms,” said Chris, looking up at the sky before they walked under the porch roof.  “Won’t be long now.”

“Come on in and I’ll give you the tour.  I still haven’t gotten around to showing Sandra the house.”  Mark led the way through the front door, through the foyer, and into the central hall.  “This building was originally intended to be a town library, so the main floor is very open, as you can see: four big rooms, mostly open to this hall.  Down here, I only use the two east rooms: this rotunda at the front, as my kitchen and dining room,

Mark had the surgical waiting room to himself.  He tried his cell phone again, and found a bit of a signal.  He called Sandra’s number.

“Mark!  What’s up?”

“Sandra, sorry to call so late.  I’m at the hospital in Peoria—Saint Francis.  I’m here with Terri.  She’s been shot.”  There was silence on the other end.  “Are you there?”

“Yes, I heard you.  I just didn’t … Terri’s been shot?”

“The wound was in her thigh, and it didn’t seem too bad, but she lost an awful lot of blood.  I took her to the ER, and they airlifted us to Peoria.  So, she’s in surgery now, and I’m in the surgical waiting room.”

“What did they tell you?”

“Not much.  Apparently, an artery was damaged.  I told them everything I know about her, but that isn’t much: just her name, and where she works, and where she’s a student.  We found the student ID in her purse, and that seemed to satisfy them.  But I don’t know anything about her family; are there parents who should be contacted?”

“Yes, but they’re … look, just hang on, and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Thanks.  But Sandra, could you do something for me before you come?  Stop off at my house and see if you can find some clothes for me.  And some shoes.  Everything I was wearing,” he swallowed, “well, everything got pretty bloody.”

“Dear Goddess!” she breathed.  “Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine.  See you soon.  Thanks, Sandra.”

 

When Sandra found the surgical waiting room, Mark was sitting in it alone, with his head bowed.  He was dressed in an odd assortment of clothes: slippers, pajama pants, a sweatshirt, and a bathrobe.  He looked up when she came in, and he smiled.  “Sandra.  I’m glad you’re here,” he said.

“Hey, Mark.  You look like you’ve been through hell.  Here are some clothes I got from your house—I hope they’re okay.”  She handed him a bag.  “Can you tell me what happened?”

Mark took a moment to think back, as if remembering events from a long time ago.  “It was at the laundromat.  I was there with a church group, and Terri came in.  That would be, oh, a little before nine.  We talked for a while, and at closing time I helped her carry her baskets out to her car.  She was shot in the parking lot, from a car across the street.  It pulled away fast—I didn’t see much, because I was trying to catch Terri.  And then all I could do was fall with her.  She was hit in the leg, the left thigh.”  He shut his eyes tightly for a moment, then continued.  “There was a lot of blood right away.  You know, I did a unit of CPE once—sort of like an internship as a chaplain—in a trauma hospital, and I’ve seen wounds before, but never that much blood, all at once.  It was scary.  I got her to the ER, and they airlifted us here.  She’s been in there about an hour and a half now.  No one has told me anything more.”

“But who would shoot at Terri?” Sandra couldn’t make sense of it.  “She’s the least—Could it have been accidental, or meant for someone else?”

“Not likely,” said Mark.  “The shooter yelled something before firing.  It was—sorry—’fuckin’ witch.’  And the only other people in sight were me, and this guy I know who does his laundry there every third Tuesday night.  I’m pretty sure the shooter hit just who he meant to hit.”

Sandra looked down.  “I knew it,” she said.  “I didn’t want to believe it, but I knew it.  All the way down here I was thinking how your friend Sarah was right—right on the money.  Damn it!  Always listen to your grandmothers.  If we’d taken her advice, maybe the police would have caught this jerk before.”

“Blaming yourself?” said Mark, looking up with a tired smile.  “Join the club.  I was right there.  I keep wondering, what could I have done to stop it?  What could I have done to respond better?